Undolled

Some lives are so twisted in the belly, throatblue & airless. Corset-bound,

I have no arms left in your repackagingto hold back cellophane, the walls. Boxed.

Your memory trails the way of an elephant, oversizedfor a single room. So I am strung out, hungry, awake.

Hunger is entropy—ever after. I swallow the night,I swallow the left side of the bed

& pull the pregnant covers over my eyesof biding with you. Because it is too much to swallow,

because yesterday’s special is today’sleftover. The tongue diagrams the taste.

I keep diagramming the same years: spoon & cup,ocean & blanket. We have no bones,

though I drag you with me. There is nothingto say now. I remember your hands

calloused & all want—the whole isa fractal of everything. I can see

the pieces. I see mine coming back togetherwith arms.

little wekiva river

BY TANYA GRAE

I want no evidence I am dirty.

All the fruit I picked, a dress full,I let drop— heavy shoeson the heart pine floor.Purpling under the skin, allI thought I wanted:

the house with its backyard river,swing set & sundial. Enough wildbougainvillea sprang to be keptoverlooking the gate. Until now.Sun falling behind the live oak,gnomon pointing—

me, stepping out of the dress.

Tanya Grae lives in Orlando, Florida, where she teaches and works as a design editor. She holds an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars and a BA from Rollins, where she received an Academy of American Poets Prize. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Florida Review, New South, The Los Angeles Review, Sugar House Review, Apalachee Review, and others. Find out more at: tanyagrae.com.